Iain Gale - Man of Honour

‘That man. Steady. Pick it up, lad.’

The rear rank closed up behind the second, their arms at high port and, as the manual directed, locked their feet closely with those standing immediately before them. Judging the distance of the closing dragoons, Steel continued.

‘Present.’

In a single disciplined movement, eighty men eased their thumbs away from the cock of their muskets and at the same time moved their right feet a short step back, keeping the knee quite stiff, before placing the butts of their weapons in the hollow between chest and shoulder. The dragoons were almost on them now. Steel could see their faces: tanned and with thick moustaches beneath fur-topped red bonnets.

He waited. Thirty paces. Twenty now.

‘Fire!’

The centre rank of Grenadiers opened up and as they began to reload the rank kneeling in front stood up and delivered their own deadly volley before turning neatly on the left foot and moving past the rank behind. As they did so the third rank brought their muskets down and through the gaps in the ranks to deliver a third salvo. This was the new way. The proper way to use the new muskets. This was why their ‘Corporal John’ had schooled them all so carefully. This, thought Steel, was real artistry. This was modern war. Seconds later he was proved right as the smoke cleared on a pile of red-coated bodies. The second rank of French dragoons, its officers and NCSs gone in the inferno of musketry, had come to a halt and stood staring at their enemy, unsure of what to do next. Among the British ranks corporals yelled orders:

‘Reload … Re-form.’

Looking beyond the hesitant, decimated Frenchmen, Steel could now see more infantry in red coats advancing across the plateau. A second squadron with fresh officers.

He turned to Slaughter:

‘Look. More of the buggers. Fall back on the gabions. We have to hold them, Jacob.’

He turned and peered towards the allied lines down in the valley.

‘Where the hell is that relief force?’

Quickly the two platoons of British Grenadiers fell back together towards the parapet.

Steel looked for Hansam. Smiling, he shouted across to him:

‘Can you do it, Henry? Can we hold them?’

‘I’d invite them to surrender, Jack, but I think they might have other plans.’

Steel laughed, grimly, and turned to Slaughter.

‘Right, Jacob. As you will. Let’s show them how it’s done.’

Again the Grenadiers assumed their three-rank formation and again, the red ranks began to close. Desperate, Steel turned to look down towards the allied lines. Pearson had failed. There was no one coming to help them. No last minute reprieve. So much for his brilliant plan. Their only way out was to take as many French with them to hell as they could. He strained his eyes in hope but was rewarded only with horror.

‘Oh, good God, no!’

Through the smoke, advancing up the slope towards their position, Steel began to make out tall, white-coated figures marching in close order. French infantry. A battalion. No, an entire brigade. Slaughter had seen them too:

‘Christ almighty, Sir. How the hell? They’ve got round behind us.’

Steel flung himself back against the parapet and closed his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Jacob. This wasn’t meant to happen.’

‘Nothing’s meant to happen in war, Mister Steel. It just does.’

Instinctively Steel started to turn the men. If one rank could about-face there might just be a chance to hold off the French in both directions. At least for a little while.

But he knew that it was too late. The white-coated infantry were too close. Steel cast down his gun and drew his sword. As he prepared for the worst, a lone, foreign voice floated up towards him from the white ranks:

‘Hallo there, in the defences. Are you English?’

This, surely was the final insult. To be asked for his surrender in such a way. Well, that was one thing at least he would not concede.

‘We’re Scots. Most of us. And we hold this place in the name of Queen Anne.’

‘Then thank God, my friend. We have come to save you.’

He couldn’t place the accent, but as the man stepped out of the smoke, Steel knew instantly. These were not French but Imperial infantry and Grenadiers, like themselves. He began to laugh.

‘Christ, but I’m glad to see you. We thought you were French.’

The Austrian officer looked aghast.

‘No, my friend. We are not French. We hate the French. Excuse me. Captain Wendt, Regiment von Diesbach.’

The Imperial infantry were among them now and as they climbed in through the gabions Steel’s men clapped them on the back. But the French were still advancing.

‘Take position.’

Slaughter had seen the danger. Again the ranks formed, joined now by the long line of Wendt’s men. The French, shocked by the sudden appearance of so many of the enemy, came again to an abrupt halt. This time, Steel knew, they would not wait for the volley.

‘Fire!’

Three hundred muskets crashed in unison and the redcoated Frenchmen, caught in the act of turning, fell in scores. Then Steel was up and in front of his men.

‘Now, Grenadiers! Now. Charge!’

With a great cheer the British redcoats rushed forward, smashing, bayonets levelled, into the remains of the dragoons. The second squadron did not stay to watch the carnage. Seeing his chance to press the advantage, Steel moved through the mêlée, waving his sword high above his head.

‘Grenadiers. To me. We’ve got them, boys. Follow up. Follow up. Come on. Follow me.’

Leaving the wounded French dragoons to the tender mercies of the Imperial infantry, the redcoats ran quickly to join Steel and Hansam, pouring pell-mell towards the centre of the fortification. To their left more Austrians were now climbing unhindered over the breastworks. There must, he thought, be a good 500 on the plateau by now. Yet the day was not yet complete. Suddenly, in a clatter of sword and harness, and with a chilling cheer, a squadron of red-coated cavalry swept past their right flank. At their head Steel recognized Lord John Hay. Marlborough was sending in the Scots dragoons. Some said they were the finest horsemen in Europe. Steel watched as their sabres swung and chopped at the heads of the French infantry like tops of barley. The Grenadiers pressed on now too, along the slope and directly into the exposed flank of the main French garrison. Then with a great cheer the entire allied line – the British and Dutch who for nigh on two hours had suffered at the hands of the defenders, broke in over the parapet. And then it was over. The French line simply fell to pieces.

Steel glimpsed a senior French officer – a full General he thought – riding hell for leather down past the ruined fort, towards the town, pursued by five of his aides and a party of British dragoons. Isolated groups of French infantry began to surrender. Some succeeded. Others fell under the unforgiving bayonets of the allied infantry. Steel looked away. He knew what happened in the aftermath of an assault. It was unlike any other battle. No room for gentlemanly conduct here. He watched instead, transfixed, as the allied cavalry and dragoons careered down the reverse slope towards Donauwö rth, in pursuit of the French who were dropping anything that might slow their progress: packs, muskets, hats, all were thrown off in the desperate rush for safety. Some of the Frenchmen made it across the single narrow bridge. The less fortunate were forced into the waters of the Danube. Few emerged. He saw horses trampling men into the mud as the cavalry swung their sabres and the allies exacted their murderous revenge. Hansam patted him gently on the back.

‘Well, Jack. I told you I’d see you at the top of the hill, and here we are. You know I am a man of my word.’